


Entitlement

by DPPatricks



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Complicated Relationships, Misunderstandings, Other, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 02:15:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20556548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPPatricks/pseuds/DPPatricks
Summary: It's February, 1978, and a Vietnam veteran wheels himself into the squad room. Nothing is the same for Starsky and Hutch afterward.





	Entitlement

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this one for Ursula Angstrom after she asked me what my thoughts were about 'entitlement.' The real person I based this OC on lived down to all my ill feelings about that particular characteristic.  
This story was originally posted on Flamingo's Archive.net and has been slightly edited for this cross-posting.

PART ONE -- STARSKY

February, 1978

It was a normal morning at the precinct, except for the fact that Hutch and I had left the night before without finishing the reports we'd promised Captain Dobey. There'd be hell to pay if he came in before lunch.

I was pouring two cups of coffee when I noticed the squad room doors had been pushed open and a visitor had come in. He was watching me as if he knew me but I was pretty sure I'd never seen him before in my life. At least, not in his current configuration.

He looked to be a few years younger than Hutch and me, maybe around thirty. He was dressed in a Class A army uniform, but I couldn't see any battle ribbons or campaign patches. It was the wheelchair that stopped me, though. His legs were missing from mid-thigh, the trousers pinned up.

I put the coffee pot back on the hot plate, picked up both mugs and turned to face him. "Can we help you?" 

"You can, if you're Detective Starsky." His reply was casual.

"Hang on a sec." I went to Hutch's desk putting his cup down next to his elbow. He raised an eyebrow at me but I had to shake my head slightly. I set my own mug on my desk and moved back to the doors. Pulling a chair around, I straddled it facing him, my arms across the back. "You must know I am. I think you recognized me when you came in."

"You're right, I did," he said, blandly.

"So, how can I help you?" I was intrigued.

"You can be my friend."

That was an opening gambit I hadn't heard before. I studied him. His shirt and pants were pressed, he was clean shaven, with brown hair and brown eyes. His Visitor's pass was prominently displayed on his shirt pocket. My ‘cop stare' is pretty good and he never blinked, so I put it away and stuck out my hand. "Always willing to be a friend of someone who made it back from that place alive."

"Martin Pomeroy." He shook my hand, the grip firm and dry. "How did you know I'd been in country?"

"I think I can still smell the jungle," I said, easily.

"I left there a long time ago." He sounded apologetic.

"No offence," I said quickly. "I can still smell it on me sometimes." I got up and gestured toward the back of the room. "Come meet my partner." I led the way, figuring he didn't need me to push since he'd made it all the way up here by himself. "Riley didn't call from downstairs," I said, "he usually does."

"I asked him not to." He shrugged. "Told him I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, you did that." I gestured him around to the end of the desks, sat at mine and picked up my coffee. I cocked the cup toward my partner. "Hutch, this is Martin Pomeroy. He was in Vietnam, same as me." I turned to the veteran. "Martin, this is Ken Hutchinson."

"Marty," Pomeroy said, shaking Hutch's hand.

"Tell us how you sweet talked Riley into letting you come up here without an escort?" Hutch asked, an edge to his tone that I hoped only I could hear.

"He's fierce, that one," Pomeroy said. "Very protective. But he's got a son in the service and I played to that. Also, I promised him that, if he let me come up alone, I wouldn't abuse my pass or steal anything larger than a paperclip. Besides, I told him," he laughed, spreading his hands wide, "where would I hide anything?"

That had us chuckling a little, me at his chutzpah, Hutch probably at his gall. Hutch and I would have to remember to joke with Riley about his break in protocol, first chance we got.

"Would you like a cup of coffee, Marty?" I asked. "I just made it."

"Sure would," he replied.

"How do you take it?" I added, getting up.

"Black, please."

I headed to the machine and took a cup from the tray.

"What brings you up to Robbery-Homicide?" Hutch pushed his typewriter table away and focused on the visitor.

"I came to see Dave," Pomeroy stated. "Uh, Detective Starsky," he amended, quickly.

I poured coffee, walked back and handed him the cup. "Dave's fine." I sat down again. "You have a theft to report? Or a murder?" I put a touch of levity in my voice but I'm not sure he heard it. Hutch did and it make him smile softly.

"Oh, neither one," Pomeroy said, seriously. "I only wanted to meet you. I'm in need of a job and I thought you might be able, and willing," he added, shyly, "to help an army buddy."

"What kind of a job?" I asked, taking a swallow of coffee. I glanced at Hutch over the rim of the mug but his expression was unreadable.

"Hopefully, something in Public Relations," Martin replied. "That's my field. As well as Criminal Justice and Communications." He sat up a bit straighter in the chair. "I just finished my third Master's."

"Wow," I said, "that's quite an accomplishment."

"Not really," he admitted, "I've been at it for ten years, ever since I got out of the army." He grinned. "The university was beginning to think they'd never get rid of me. I figured, with the Spring semester due to come in, it was a good time to take my leave."

I couldn't help but laugh and Hutch cracked a smile. The guy sure was personable.

"We can always use another good P.R. man." Hutch picked up his coffee and drank. "Have you put in an application?"

"Twice." Pomeroy sounded a little miffed. "They keep telling me they'll get back to me." He sipped his coffee, opened his eyes wide in apparent surprise, and drank more deeply. "I figured I'd try and give someone a shove." He glanced at me, probably attempting to gauge if he'd gone too far. "That is," he went on quickly, "try to get someone on the inside to give them a shove."

"I don't know if it'll help, Marty, but Hutch and I could see what we can do," I said. "How'd you get my name, though?" 

"Oh, come on, Detective..." Sarcasm was rife in Pomeroy's voice. "You and your partner make the papers almost every week. Seems like I've been reading about you two for years."

I grimaced and Hutch ducked his head. Yeah, it was possible. I was always having to send articles to Ma. She complained I never told her enough about our cases. "Okay," I said, tamping down embarrassment, "but why me?"

"Because I figured you'd understand," he said. "Several of the articles mentioned that you'd been in ‘Nam. You know what it was like over there. I also think you know how tough it can be trying to get your life back together."

Unintentionally, I glanced at where his legs should be. "I doubt it."

He appeared unaffected by my look. "You know what I mean. You may not have paid the price I did, but you still know."

"Yeah." I was suddenly uncomfortable, "I guess I do."

"I was a perpetual student ‘til I got my head back on straight," he continued. "Now that I'm ready to tackle the big bad world again, I can't seem to find anyone willing to take a chance on a cripple."

"Aren't there organizations to help with that sort of thing?" Hutch asked, trying to hide the effect the word, ‘cripple,' had had on him. I doubt that Marty noticed, but I did. Hutch had come way too close to losing a leg himself to take such a casual reference lightly.

Pomeroy nodded, his expression grim. "They all say they're trying to find me something in my field but, so far," he lifted his unencumbered hand in a futile gesture, "nothing."

That's the moment Captain Dobey chose to storm into the room. His arms were loaded with folders and files and his face showed barely controlled fury. He strode to my desk and glared at Hutch, before turning his ire on me. "Where are those reports you two promised would be on my desk before you left last night? I came back from my meeting with the chief and you'd both gone. No reports!"

"Uh, we... that is --" Hutch stammered.

"We were whipped last night, Cap," I interrupted. "Working on them now." I gestured toward my typewriter table.

Dobey must have noticed Pomeroy, sitting in his chair at the end of the desks, because he straightened up and huffed.

"Uh, Captain Dobey." I stood up. "I'd like you to meet Martin Pomeroy. He served in Vietnam."

Dobey, whether embarrassed about having shouted at his men with a civilian present, or at the legless condition of that civilian, shifted some files in his arms, walked around my desk and stuck out his hand. "Glad to meet you Mr. Pomeroy."

"Marty, please, Captain." Pomeroy seemed unruffled.

"Starsky, Hutchison," Dobey said, getting his gruff back, but with a lowered voice, "those reports had better be on my desk before lunch, or..."

"They will be, Cap," I assured him.

Hutch nodded affirmatively, beginning to type again.

Dobey went into his office and shut the door.

"Sorry about that, Marty," I said.

"Don't worry, buddy boy," he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I've known too many of his type to take offense at another one."

"What ‘type' is that, Mr. Pomeroy?" Hutch asked. I was probably the only one who noticed the tautness in his voice. He and I make Dobey the brunt of jokes all the time, but only with each other. Marty had skated onto thin ice.

"Oh, the officious, overbearing, throw-his-considerable-weight-around-because-he's-really-inept-and-doesn't-want-anyone-to-realize-it kind." Pomeroy's words and tone were callous.

"Dobey's not like that," I said, firmly, needing this stranger to know that Hutch and I wouldn't put up with criticism of our captain. "We let him down last night, that's all. He's a damn good cop."

Hutch caught my eye and sent silent support.

"I'm sure he is, Dave." Pomeroy's face grew red, whether from genuine chagrin or from having been brought up short by the person he was trying to impress, I couldn't tell. "No offense intended. I shouldn't have arbitrarily lumped him with some of the officers I've known. My apologies."

Before Hutch or I could respond, Minnie came in, carrying a folder, hurried around to Hutch's side of the desks and placed it next to his arm. "These just arrived. It's the information you guys asked for on the Drury case."

"Thanks, Minnie." Hutch turned from his typewriter and opened the file.

"Minnie, m' love..." I gestured toward Martin. "This is Marty Pomeroy. He's here for a visit but Hutch and I have to finish these reports before lunch." I grinned into her suspicious eyes. "Would you be a darlin' and show him around the station? Introduce him to everybody and keep him out of trouble until we're finished?"

"Starsky, you know I don't have --" she began.

"Please don't interrupt your work on my account, Miss Minnie," Pomeroy broke in. "I don't want to put anyone out."

Minnie looked at him, and I could see her eyes didn't leave his face. That's not very easy when the person in front of you is sitting, without legs, in a wheelchair. I hadn't managed it. Minnie was obviously uncomfortable but covering it well. "Sure," she said, kindly.

"Minnie knows more about this place than anybody," I told Pomeroy, pulling back my typewriter table. "As soon as Hutch and I finish these, we'll take you to lunch, okay? We can talk then."

"That'd be great," he said, smiling up at Minnie.

"Come on, Marty, we'll start with Records and Information. That's where I work." Minnie got behind the chair and pushed him down the aisle toward the doors. "I'll bring him back at lunch time," she called over her shoulder.

"That was interesting." Hutch's tone was bland. "You've got yourself a fan."

"He was just being friendly," I said. "Think he wants something besides help getting a job?" I was strangely unsettled, both at the situation and Hutch's comment.

"Guess we'll find out," Hutch replied.

We typed, corrected, conferred about details and typed some more. Finished, we handed the paperwork to Dobey in his office.

"Sorry I yelled earlier, fellas," he grumbled. "I know it was a rough one and I shouldn't have made you promise these before you left."

"‘s okay, Cap," I said, eager to please, since Dobey didn't apologize very often. "You'd have thrown anything we wrote last night back at us anyway." I tried a grin and got a small, grudging smile in return. "This way, there's not so much time wasted."

"And paper, Cap'n." The corners of Hutch's mouth twitched. "Look at all the trees we've saved, not having to re-type everything."

"And typewriter ribbon," I added.

Dobey chuckled. "G'wan, get outta here. Take your new friend to lunch." He picked up the reports and began to read. "By the way, good work yesterday. The chief asked me to pass along his congratulations." He didn't look up.

"Thanks, Cap." I opened the door for Hutch.

We came back out to our desks just as Minnie pushed Pomeroy into the squad room.

"You're a treasure, Minnie Kaplan," I said, kissing her cheek. "Perfect timing."

She dimpled at me and mouthed ‘you owe me.' I could tell Martin had read her lips but he appeared unperturbed. Minnie smiled to take the sting out of the words, turned and left.

"So," I said, moving behind Pomeroy's chair. "How does the best burger and fries in the city sound?"

Hutch picked up his jacket, as well as mine, and waited while I started rolling the chair toward the doors.

"Sounds great," Marty replied, enthusiastically.

*************

In the garage, Pomeroy waxed almost poetic when he saw the Torino. "Wow, Dave, this is a really hot car! Looks like she's doin' a hundred just sitting there! The way she's all hunkered down at the front, with that ass end sittin' up so high. The racing stripe helps, too! What's she got under the hood?"

Hutch grimaced but didn't say a word.

"If we weren't in a hurry, Marty," I said, ignoring Hutch, "I'd show you. Maybe we'll have time when we get back."

"That'd be swell!"

I opened the passenger door and he moved like a monkey, pulling himself from the chair to the seat with no wasted effort or fumbled motion. Hutch folded up the chair and went to the back of the car. I hurried around and popped the trunk. He stuffed the thing in and closed the lid. I pulled the driver's seat forward so that Hutch could fold himself in behind. I took my place and started the car. Marty grinned appreciatively at the rumble.

Conversation on the way to The Pits was nonexistent because Hutch and I were, as usual, watchful and alert to anything amiss or suspicious on our beat. I was awfully glad when we reached our destination without having had to answer a radio call, or seeing anything we needed to stop and investigate because having a private citizen in a cop car is frowned on.

It was obvious, by the look on Pomeroy's face when I pulled the Torino to the curb in front of Huggy's, that the name on the wall had not impressed him in any positive way.

"Don't judge a book," I told him.

I parked a few spaces down the street, where the curb was low, released the trunk and jumped out. I pulled the seat forward so that Hutch could unfold his long legs from the back. While I went around the hood, Hutch got the wheelchair. He brought it to the passenger side, locked the brakes, and held it so Pomeroy could lean out and grab the armrests.

Marty pulled himself out of the car, balanced for a moment, before turning his body and plopping onto the middle of the seat. He arranged the pinned up trouser legs neatly.

Having spent time in a couple of VA hospitals, I knew Marty had made that operation look a lot easier than it really was. Practice, lots of practice, and a good set of arms and shoulders. I glanced at Hutch but his expression was inscrutable. He didn't seem as impressed by our new friend as I was. Not having been in the military, he might not have much in common with Marty. I'd be careful to make sure Hutch could stay in the conversation and not feel overlooked or left out. He was, after all, my best friend in the whole world, Pomeroy was someone I'd never met until today.

Hutch held the door open. I pushed Marty's chair inside and onto the small landing, tilted the front wheels up a little and rolled the back wheels carefully down the two steps.

"Not the first time you've done that, buddy boy," Pomeroy said, with approval.

"Naw," I admitted. "While I was recuperating at a VA hospital, after I got back stateside, I had a lot of practice chauffeuring guys."

"It shows," he said.

I rolled him around the corner into the main room, already partially full.

Huggy came from behind the bar. "Starsky, m' man, Hutch." He was wiping his hands on a bar towel. "A genuine lunch hour lunch today for a change?" He cast an appraising look at Martin. "And who might this be?"

"Someone who was in the army more or less the same time I was," I said. "Marty?" I leaned over his shoulder. "Meet Huggy Bear. Huggy, this is Martin Pomeroy."

Huggy held out his hand and it almost seemed as if my newest friend was challenging my oldest friend to a finger crushing contest. I could have been wrong but.... Hutch brushed my back and I knew he could feel the tension, too.

Huggy never flinched and, after a few seconds, Pomeroy plastered a smile on his face. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Bear."

"Just Huggy," the Bear said. He glanced at Hutch but, before I could get into the silent conversation, Martin began wheeling himself toward a vacant booth. I took over and steered him to Hutch's and my usual spot in the back corner. I'd ask Hutch what that was all about later.

"Three Specials, Hug, if you please," I said.

"Comin' right up, gentlemen." Huggy moved toward the kitchen.

"Sorry about the steps, Marty," I apologized.

"Not enough call for a ramp in a place like this, I guess." He didn't attempt to keep the criticism out of his voice. "If the proprietor isn't aware of the difficulties the disabled would have getting into his bar, their patronage must not be important to him."

"Huggy is the proprietor," Hutch said, sliding into the booth.

I set the brakes on Marty's chair at the end of the table and slid in next to my partner. I could tell it surprised Pomeroy that I didn't sit on the other side but I didn't care. Hutch and I always sit next to each other, whenever possible.

"Huggy's not trying to discriminate against anyone, Marty," I said. "He's just never been asked to put in a ramp. I'm sure he'd do it, if someone said something. Maybe I will."

"Don't bother on my account," he said. "I sincerely doubt that I'll have the need to come here again."

"You never know, pal." I grinned at him. "You haven't tasted the food yet."

He shrugged. "If we do come another time, I won't worry. You handled my chair on those steps like a master."

I hate compliments about something like that and felt the heat rise to my face. Inexplicably, I didn't want Marty knowing how little it takes to embarrass me sometimes.

"Are you from around here?" Hutch asked, changing the subject and giving me a chance to settle. I could tell his judgment of Pomeroy wasn't as positive as mine yet, and I was grateful that he was willing to give ‘friendly' a try.

"Born and raised," Pomeroy replied. "No family though, never had any siblings and my folks were killed in a freeway accident years ago. Nobody left but me." He said it without inflection, as if he'd come to terms with the loss and it didn't bother him at all. Not sure I could have sounded that blasé, relating such things.

Huggy brought our order, adding three bottles of beer and glasses. He didn't say a word and only exchanged one look with Hutch. It seemed to me that Pomeroy was trying to ‘hear' their thoughts but had been unable to. It appeared to frustrate him and he covered it quickly. I began to realize that this was one complicated guy.

I picked up my burger and took a big bite. Hutch began eating his fries.

Pomeroy cut his hamburger in quarters.

"That's probably a first for The Pits," I said, nudging my partner. "Don't you think, Hutch?"

"Almost undoubtedly," Hutch agreed.

We ate for a few minutes in silence. I tried to keep my attention focused on the people in the room, but my eyes kept going back to Pomeroy's chair.

"You want to know about my legs," Martin finally said. "Don't you, Dave?"

"Yeah," I admitted. "I guess I do. That is, if you don't mind telling us."

"No, I don't mind." He ate a couple of fries calmly, as if he was about to give a weather report. "Six months in a POW camp."

I stopped chewing and put my burger down. Hutch did, too.

Pomeroy took a large bite of his, chewed contentedly and swallowed. "They broke my legs so many times, the docs couldn't save ‘em when I got back to the states." He took another bite. "This is a really good burger, Dave. You were right."

He ate half his lunch while I thought about what he'd said.

"As you could tell when I got in and out of the car," he went on, conversationally, "I only have about six inches of legs below my butt." He started on the rest of his food. "Plumbing still works though, thankfully," he continued, wiping his mouth. "I still have my dick, and can even get it up once in a while."

I forced a grin and picked up my burger. "That's good."

"Damn straight!" Martin's expression showed pride. "Don't think I could live like some guys do, having to empty bags twice a day. Geez, that'd suck!" He chewed and swallowed again. "Luckily, I can still piss and take a dump by myself, and I can feel a lady's luscious mouth on my cock." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Everything below that's long gone."

I'd never met anyone like Pomeroy. I wanted to be disgusted by the casual way he described his catastrophic injuries, the callus words he used when talking about his bathroom and sexual abilities. But, unexpectedly, I had the opposite reaction. I was captivated and almost enthralled, wondering how I would have handled a similar situation. Would I have been able to continue with my life and try to make something of myself? Would I have the aplomb to discuss such personal topics with relative strangers? Would I have wanted to? I sincerely doubted it. I was impressed, almost in spite of myself, by the hell he must have gone through, and the discipline it had to have taken to bring himself out the other side, relatively intact.

"What about prosthetics?" Hutch asked. "Aren't they doing amazing things with those?"

"Could be," Martin said. "But I've talked to too many other amputees and, according to them, prossies can cause as many problems as they solve. And I don't choose to be anyone's guinea pig. So..." He took another bite of his burger, "I'll do what I can with what I have."

"It's selfish of me," I said, "but I'm glad I never had to go through anything like that."

"I know," he replied. "In fact, I know everything about you, Dave, what outfit you were with, where you served, in-country. I even know how many kills you've got to your credit."

"Credit?" Hutch's tone had sharpened.

"You bet," Marty said. "You don't think he was born knowing how to spot the nest a VC sniper had built in a tree, do you? Or how to take out that target from a thousand yards away?" He patted my arm. "You've got yourself quite a partner here, Ken," he said, proudly, almost as if he'd played some part in my ‘skills.' "I hope you take good care of him."

"I do my best." Hutch sounded almost sullen.

"We take care of each other, Marty," I added. "We're partners and he's my best friend."

"Of course he is," Pomeroy said. "I'm sure I've read every word that's ever been printed about both of you." I thought I caught a note of insincerity but pushed it away as a misreading. "The point I was trying to make, Ken," he continued, "is the boy obviously had a natural talent but he had to go through months of training and then more months of practice before he got good at it."

Hutch was clearly having some trouble with what Pomeroy was saying about me, the man he thought he knew so well. I was getting uncomfortable. The things I'd done over there were part of the reason why I never wanted to talk to Hutch about my experiences. I'd been someone I didn't want him to know.

"And he was really good at it," Martin went on, obviously unaware of my uneasiness. "Let me tell you about some of his more spectacular --"

"Don't," I interrupted. "Thanks for the support, Marty, but just... don't."

Pomeroy relented, as if he'd said his piece and didn't need to press.

"I thought that kind of information wasn't public knowledge." Hutch sounded like a cop, even to me. I'd need to diffuse this antagonism as soon as possible, if we were going to be any help getting Marty a job.

"Oh, it isn't," Martin responded. "But I have friends in the Army Records office up in L.A. When I explained that I needed some information on a buddy of mine, they were more than willing to help me out." His smile was ingratiating. "After receiving a case of their favorite scotch, of course."

"Of course," Hutch murmured. 

"No offense intended, Ken," Martin said, plainly back peddling. "I'm sure you and Dave have to use persuasion and... incentive, in your line of work, from time to time."

"When necessary, Marty," I said, trying to dispel the tension I felt. "But why were you asking about my record in the first place? I thought you'd read ‘every word ever printed about us'."

"Because I needed to know more than what's in newspaper articles. I needed to know if you were someone I could count on." Marty's expression was close to pleading. "Your service information tells me you are. You never left anyone behind, you always did whatever you had to for your men." He put a hand on my arm. "I'm near the end of my resources, buddy boy. School took almost everything and, if I don't find a job pretty soon, I'm going to have to throw myself on the V.A."

I shuddered inwardly. I'd seen enough of V.A. facilities and the guys who had nowhere else to turn to last me a lifetime. My gut knotted and my heart turned over. "We'll see what we can do, Marty."

"I'd really appreciate that, Dave," he said.

Hutch looked pointedly at his watch. "We need to get back to the station, Starsky."

I could hear the tautness in his voice and didn't understand where it was coming from. I thought Marty had been pleasant, a little over enthusiastic about my army days, but in a friendly way. "Oh, yeah," I said, "I guess we..."

"Could you go ahead, please, Ken?" Martin was digging for his wallet. "I have a few more things I'd like to talk to Dave about. We'll grab a cab back in a little while."

I put out a hand and stopped him. "That's okay." I signaled to Dianne, behind the bar. "Lunch is on me. Besides, Hutch never drives my car." I smiled at the appalled look on my partner's face, thinking he might have to take the Torino back to Metro. "Well, almost never."

Hutch's expression softened and he caught my eye with a smirk.

"Hutch and I have to get back to work anyway," I added. "What's your transportation situation?"

I got up, took a twenty out of my wallet and gave it to Dianne. "Give yourself a generous tip, schweetheart, and ask Huggy to put the rest toward our tab, okay?"

"Anything you say, Starsky." She smiled and turned away.

I unlocked the brakes and pulled Martin's chair back from the booth, giving Hutch room to get out.

"My car's parked in the police garage, Dave," he said, in answer to my question. I raised my eyebrows at that, glancing at Hutch, who was granite-faced. "I got special permission, due to my... situation." He began wheeling himself toward the hallway and I hurried to catch up. "It's a hot TransAm that's been modified for hand controls. Wait ‘til you see her."

*******

"What was that all about at lunch," I asked Hutch that night, on our way down to the garage.

"What was what all about?"

"Pomeroy's hand shake with Huggy." I was pretty sure he already knew what I meant. "Did you get the same impression I did? That Marty was testing Hug?"

"Could have been the other way around," Hutch suggested.

I thought about it while I got in the Torino and opened Hutch's door for him. He slid in on the passenger's side. "Didn't feel that way to me." I fired up the motor. "Besides, what reason would Huggy have for trying to crush Pomeroy's hand?"

"None that I can think of," he responded, thoughtfully. "But why would Pomeroy try it?"

"Maybe we missed something?"

"Both of us?" He shook his head. "I don't think so, Starsk. But, without knowing more, we're wasting breath."

"We need to remember to ask Huggy next time we're there."

"You bet," he agreed. "Next time."

*******

I made appointment after appointment with Captain Carville, chief of the Office of Public Information but he cancelled every one. I was beginning to think I was getting the same runaround Marty was. And it was starting to piss me off.

Pomeroy dropped around often. He tried not to hassle me about the job but, if I was right about the vibes he was giving off, he was getting desperate.

"Let me take you guys out for a drink," he said one evening. He'd shown up just as Hutch and I were getting off shift. "There's a place I go where the drinks are free for me and half-price for my friends. Want to give it a try?"

Hutch didn't look thrilled but I was thirsty. And I'm always up for half-price drinks! We took Pomeroy's car, since he said it'd be easier than trying to give me directions.

"Alfredo's," I said, enthusiastically, hanging over the bucket seat backs, my arms on Hutch's and Marty's shoulders. "We've heard of this place, right, Hutch? How come we've never been here?"

"Maybe because it's clear across town from our usual haunts?" Hutch asked, facetiously.

"Oh, yeah." I kept my mouth shut after that.

Pomeroy pulled the TransAm into the only handicapped parking space in the lot. Hutch hopped out and got the chair while I crawled out of the back seat.

Inside, the place was tacky Mexican décor and loud canned mariachi music. It was crowded, though, and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. We settled at a table in the bar. The margaritas were fabulous and cheap!

During our first round, we exhausted the topic of deep-frying, as opposed to baking tortilla chips, decided corn were definitely better than flour, how to make hot salsa even hotter, and what the Dodgers were likely to do, come the new season.

After our second round was delivered, I casually asked, "Where were you stationed, Marty?"

"Let's not talk about me." Pomeroy waved a hand. "You don't want to hear any more than I've already told you about my ordeal. Let's talk about you. Your kills, your medals."

"No," I said, firmly, "You already seem to know entirely too much about my ... exploits."

"Okay." He seemed to take the rebuff easily. "Tell me about your cases. That is, if you're allowed."

I glanced at Hutch, who raised a noncommittal shoulder, so I told Marty as much as I could about our current case load. It wasn't anything he couldn't read in the papers but it kept us talking through another couple of drinks and burritos. I made sure Hutch had to jump in, correcting my ‘mistakes' and filling in the holes I'd left in the stories. I wasn't about to have him cut out of the conversation if I could help it.

We were all pretty high when we left, but Pomeroy proved he could handle that car, even half drunk. Darn good thing, too, since neither Hutch nor I could have driven it. We should take the Torino or the LTD next time.

"How do you know when Hutch and I are coming off stakeouts, Marty?" I asked on the way back to Metro, still hanging over the seat backs. "Or when our shift changes. You seem to show up at just the right time."

"I have friends in the department now, Dave," he replied. "Remember that day when Darlin' Minnie showed me around? I met everybody. They all said to call them if I ever needed anything. They tell me stuff."

"Well, they shouldn't." Hutch sounded irritated.

"Why not, Ken?" he asked, clearly surprised. "It's not like you and Dave are undercover or anything, is it? If you were, of course, I'm sure they'd tell me to mind my own business." He glanced over his shoulder at me. "Have I done something wrong?"

"Well, no, I guess not." I could feel the tension in Hutch's shoulder. I rubbed it soothingly. "It's just that... I think you're beginning to make my partner nervous."

"It's okay, Starsk." Hutch said.

"What've you got to be nervous about, Ken?" Marty looked searchingly at Hutch. "I'm only hangin' around until I can nail down a decent job. I'll be out of your lives after that."

"I know," Hutch said. "Don't pay any attention to Starsky, he's drunk." My partner shrugged out from under my hand.

"Oh, and you're not?" I asked, slightly pissed.

"You'd better hope not, since I'm the one who drove today." Hutch's tone was slightly caustic.

"Oh, right," I remembered.

*******

During the next couple of weeks, I tried to get Hutch to talk about Marty but we never got anything sorted out.

"You don't like him," I said, on our way to my place one night.

"It's not that I don't like him, Starsk, it's just that..."

"What?"

"I don't quite trust him yet," he finished.

"Why not?"

"I wish I knew," he replied, sounding uncertain, which was really unusual for Hutch. "I feel like he's got an agenda he's not telling us about and it makes me uneasy." He shrugged, clearly unable to put his doubts into words. "I'm just not ready, that's all."

"That's all?" I repeated. "Well I trust him."

"I know."

"So, if I trust him," I tried to rein in my growing frustration, "but you don't, does that mean you don't trust me now?"

"Of course not, Starsky!" He was sounding irritated himself.

"What's it mean then?" I prodded. "You suddenly questioning my choice of friends?"

"Look," he said, soothingly, "let's not talk about this tonight, okay?"

"Okay." I was not happy. "When can we talk about it?"

"When we're not as tired, maybe. When we haven't had such a rough day."

"And when's that gonna be, huh?" I asked, harshly. "Seems like all we've had lately are rough days."

"Ain't that the truth?"

His half smile got through to me and I relented. "Okay, we'll talk about it later. But I need you to know this, Hutch," I looked at him for as long as traffic allowed. "He's got rough edges and he's pushy but, for reasons I can't explain, even to myself, I like him."

"I know that, too."

*******

Pomeroy invited us for drinks again a few nights later. This time, we went to another place Hutch and I had never been, a seedy bar named ‘Jimmy's.' Not anywhere my partner and I would go again.

"No war or cop talk tonight, Marty," I said, as soon as our brews had been delivered. "Tell us about yourself."

He talked continuously for the rest of the evening about his courses, degrees, professors, good and bad, and all the hot undergrads, grads and teachers he'd had. "God! You have no idea how many women, and men, too," he said with a side-wise look, "want to know if I can satisfy them, since I don't have any legs." He grinned wickedly. "They never have any doubts afterward."

I chuckled, self-consciously, but I don't think Hutch laughed. Sometimes, Marty's coarseness seemed a little more than rough-edged, even to me.

After his sexual conquests, he moved on to his hopes for a good job where he'd feel appreciated and satisfied. "I want, no I _need_ something where I'll feel my sacrifice hasn't been for nothing."

Hutch and I listened while we all ate greasy cheeseburgers and guzzled cheap beer. I know Hutch hated the cuisine and I'd probably hear about it for a week, but I was grateful he was willing to talk and listen to someone with whom he had zero in common.

"Fascinating guy, doncha think, Hutch?" I asked, after Marty had dropped us off at the station and we were headed for Venice Place in the Torino.

"Yeah, fascinating," Hutch agreed, flatly.

"Still don't trust him, huh?" 

"Not yet," he admitted.

"Well, be sure and let me know when you change your mind."

"Oh, you'll be the first."

*******

The next time Pomeroy showed up as Hutch and I were getting off shift, my spirits sank, because I knew what Hutch's reaction was going to be.

"Boy, do I have a place to take you guys tonight!" Marty began. "I've been waiting for this chance."

Hutch pushed his typewriter table back and got up. "Can't tonight, Starsky, you two go on. Marty can drive you home. Right, Pomeroy?"

"Sure, Ken." Martin was instantly agreeable. "Of course."

Hutch grabbed his jacket. "Pick me up in the morning, okay, partner?" He didn't wait for me to say anything before he left.

"Don't mind him, Dave." Martin putt a hand on my arm. "He's probably sick and tired of hearing about my college days anyway."

"Yeah, I guess." I watched Hutch walk away.

In his car, on the way to the restaurant, Marty broke the silence. "Have you ever told Hutch about your time in ‘Nam?"

"Not really," I admitted.

"Why not?"

"It's not something I want to talk about."

"You got nothing to be ashamed of, buddy boy," Marty responded, sharply. "I know, remember?"

"It's not that, it's..."

"What?"

I shook my head, not sure myself. "Hutch is an innocent," I said, softly. "He's never been in a situation like that, thank God! I look at my partner and, even with all the shit we've been through together, I know his soul is pure, it's still full of light. He hasn't been touched by the darkness I felt over there." I shrugged. "I guess I want to protect him from ever knowing, if I can."

"He's a big boy, he could take it." Marty's voice had taken on an edge. "Everybody should know what it was like!"

"Maybe." 

"Stop treating him like a kid!" he urged. "You say he's your partner and best friend. Make him grow up!"

"No, Marty. You don't know Hutch. I'd never try and make him do anything. He'd listen, if I ever did want to talk, and he'd do his best to understand." I shrugged. "He couldn't though."

"You're right about that," Martin replied.

We went to a fancy Mexican restaurant. I ate and drank but wasn't really hungry or thirsty, not after what Marty and I had talked about in the car. I couldn't get it out of my mind.

"Maybe you're right," I said, over our second round of drinks. "Maybe I should try and tell Hutch about the war. It could be he wants to share that part of me, too."

"I know what I said, Dave, but I've had second thoughts." He drank half his margarita. "I'm willing to bet it wouldn't keep you two from drifting apart, like I can see you are." He stared at me, his gaze hard. "He's jealous of me."

"Naw," I said, automatically.

"Sure he is, Dave! And he's possessive. He's always had you to himself and he wants to keep it that way."

"You're wrong." I tried to sound sure.

"Mark my words, buddy boy, you've got problems."

*******

On a Saturday when Hutch and I had planned a quiet day at the beach, to talk things out, Pomeroy showed up at my apartment while we were loading blankets, towels and a cooler into the Torino's trunk.

"Come on, guys," he said, cheerfully. "You can go to the beach any time. I've got comp tickets to the best movie ever made! At the greatest theater in the world!"

Hutch straightened up and his smile disappeared. "You two go. I'm not in the mood for a flick." He hoisted the cooler to his shoulder. "I'll put this stuff back in the fridge, Starsk, and lock up when I leave. Have fun." He carried the food upstairs and went inside.

"Forget it, Dave." Pomeroy leaned out his window. "Get in! You'll hate yourself if you don't come. Guaranteed."

I swallowed the need to follow Hutch and get him to talk to me, figuring we'd sort it out another day. "Yeah, okay." I went around and got in the TransAm.

He drove up to Los Angeles, jumped off the freeway and wound his way into Hollywood, plainly familiar with the route. When I realized where we were going, I was surprised.

He pulled to the curb in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater and I gawked. I'd seen pictures of the place, of course, but had never been there. A line of patient people, mostly adults, surprisingly, stretched from the box office all the way around the corner and out of sight.

The marquee proclaimed ‘Star Wars' in huge letters. The familiar posters were visible behind almost every piece of glass.

"I didn't realize it was still playing here," I said, awed.

"The theater had to move it down the street a few blocks during June and July last year," Pomeroy said, patently proud of his insider knowledge. "‘Sorcerer' was scheduled to come in. But when that film turned out to be a dog, and ‘Star Wars' kept drawing sold out houses, it was reinstated here. That had never happened before, a film coming back to the Chinese for a second first run engagement." He grinned at me. "The way things are going, it could be here for another year!"

I brought his chair around and he got out, turning the keys over to a valet.

Even though he knew I was uncomfortable doing it, he had me push him directly to the box office, cutting in front of the hundreds of people in line.

"Martin Pomeroy," he told the irritated cashier. "Jerry told me you'd be holding tickets for me."

She swallowed her response, whatever it would have been, put a smile on her pretty face and found the envelope. She passed it through the window. "Here you are, sir."

Martin took it, not bothering to thank her.

I did though, and she smiled before turning to the next person in line.

"‘Jerry'?" I asked, over his shoulder, beginning to roll him across the foot- and hand-imprinted courtyard toward the imposing bronze doors.

"The manager," he answered, as if I should have guessed. "We've known each other for years. Took some of the same classes in Communications."

I glanced back at the people waiting in line. Many of them were watching us, expressions running the gamut from pity to anger. "Do you do that all the time?" I asked. "Cut in front of so many people?"

"Of course." He waved a hand over his shoulder. "Any one of them would trade places with me in a heartbeat. They're envious of the special treatment I'm entitled to."

"They might trade for a day."

"Don't spoil the mood, buddy boy," he chided. "You're about to see the greatest movie of all time!"

"You've seen it before?"

"Of course!" He grinned over his shoulder at me. "Maybe a dozen times!"

"That good, huh?"

"Better!" he crowed. "Just wait."

The ticket taker clearly knew Pomeroy, accepting the envelope with an unhappy expression. It's possible, if Marty had already seen the film a dozen times, the man was wondering how this guy in a wheelchair rated so many freebies. Maybe I'd wonder, too.

Marty propelled himself inside and to the left aisle. "In most theaters I like to sit in the middle but, as you see, The Chinese has two side aisles." I grabbed the chair's handles and slowed it down on the slope. "So here, I always sit next to an end seat about half way to the front."

He stopped next to a row that was nearly full. "Tell everyone to move one seat to the right," he said to the startled man on the aisle. "My companion needs to sit next to my chair."

The guy looked angry, then flustered, then resigned. He whispered to the woman next to him. Nothing needed to be said to anyone else, they'd all heard Marty's instruction. Visibly unhappy, but plainly unwilling to make a scene, they did as he said.

I sat in the vacated seat. "I get the feeling, that you enjoy making people jump to your finger snaps."

He crooked a grin. "You noticed, huh?"

I think I was actually hoping to be disappointed in the movie, what with all the negative feelings I was trying to ignore, but it didn't happen. It almost literally blew me away. I loved the story, the characters, the special effects; everyone in the theater cheered when the Millennium Falcon made the jump to light speed. It was magical.

I couldn't stop talking about it all the way back to Bay City. "You seem to be able to get just about anything you want, Marty. Any chance you could get me a TIE fighter for Christmas?"

"I'll see what I can do, Dave," he said, loftily. "Stick with me, buddy boy."

*******

I finally managed to nail Carville to the floor for an appointment with Marty and the next day, Pomeroy had a job answering phones and interfacing between the department and the public.

"Have you figured out why the chief was so reluctant to meet with you?" I asked, after his first morning at work. We were headed down to the cafeteria for a quick lunch before his afternoon shift.

"Yeah," he said, quietly. "One of the other guys told me he was trying to hold the job for his niece but she's failed a couple of her classes and won't be graduating after all."

"Ah," I said, in full understanding. Nepotism still reigned in a lot of the city's governmental offices.

"You were just the help I needed, Dave."

"Glad to do it."

"This position will give me a foothold," Pomeroy went on. "From here, I can make contacts in other city offices. I hear a rumor that the mayor's going to be needing a disabled vet on his staff pretty soon."

"Yeah," I responded. "I remember reading something about a committee to study the problems the guys from the war are still having getting jobs."

"Especially the disabled ones," Marty noted. "Remember the lack of a ramp at The Pits? We need a law that makes such things mandatory in buildings and businesses open to the public. If Huggy wants to keep his liquor license, he'll have to put one in."

"You'll get no argument from me," I assured him.

We made our selections from the cafeteria's limited offerings and found a table in a corner. Martin looked askance at his split pea soup and chicken salad sandwich.

I couldn't help but smile. "Nobody's died yet, Marty."

He cast a jaundiced eye at me. "Yet."

He might be a prickly sonavabitch sometimes, but I was inclined to overlook his superior attitude as we spent more and more time together. He kept reminding me of a part of my life I had tried to forget but was now realizing I never could. And maybe that was good. I hadn't done anything over there I needed to be ashamed of, and I'd brought almost all my men out alive. I was finally coming to terms with those few years of my past, with his help. It was possible I needed Marty as much as he needed me.

PART TWO - HUTCHINSON

February, 1978

The morning Martin Pomeroy rolled himself into the squad room I was blindsided by a premonition. I don't really believe in that sort of thing, don't think I'd ever had one before. But something inside me knew his appearance was going to be important to Starsky and me.

He might have been fairly tall, if he hadn't been sitting in a wheel chair. His upper body, arms and shoulders, showed well developed muscles under his tight uniform shirt. His hair was a close-cropped light brown and his eyes were dark brown, almost black. There was a guarded quality in his gaze that made me uneasy, but I couldn't have said why. His lips had a pouty fullness that probably drove women crazy. The hand he offered in greeting was large, long-fingered and well proportioned.

"Hutch, this is Martin Pomeroy, he was in Vietnam, same as me." Since my partner rarely talked about that part of his life, I had no cause to doubt.

When he told us that he had smooth talked the desk sergeant downstairs into allowing him to come up, by himself, to see Starsky, I could easily believe him. He had a very winning way. And his explanation about how he knew Starsky's name made sense. We do end up in the papers much more often than either of us would like..

He told us he needed a job and wasn't having any luck getting one in our Public Information office through the usual channels. So he'd come to my partner, also a veteran of the war, to ask for help.

I loved my partner for many, many reasons, and two of the main ones were his huge heart and giving nature. Pomeroy couldn't have picked a better target for his appeal if he'd tried and, for some reason, my hackles were up. I'd almost lost Starsky so many times I tended to be over-protective and this guy seemed just a little too slick, his spiel a little too rehearsed, for my comfort.

Dobey blustered at Starsky and me about late reports but put on his best civilian-charming persona when introduced to Pomeroy.

"Marty, please, Captain," the veteran said, oozing cordiality.

I caught a decidedly negative vibe and, after a tight query, was pleased when Starsky defended Dobey beautifully. Pomeroy would never know the intelligent, kind, conscientious, supportive, fatherly figure Starsky and I knew. And something proprietary in me was glad of that.

Minnie brought us a folder of faxes and was prevailed upon to keep Pomeroy out of our hair while Starsky and I finished our reports. When she brought him back up to the squad room, she mouthed, ‘you owe me,' to my partner. I figured she'd had a trying couple of hours.

We took Martin to The Pits for lunch.

I could tell Huggy's initial impression of Starsky's new friend was no more positive than mine was.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Bear," Pomeroy said. Maybe my ears heard insincerity where none was intended but, when Huggy replied, I knew I hadn't been wrong in my perception.

"Just Huggy."

The words resonated with my own misgivings. I almost always go along with Huggy's impressions, he knows people. In a brief look over Starsky's and Pomeroy's heads, Huggy and I silently agreed we'd watch this man closely.

Lunch was strained, for my part, but Starsky seemed oblivious to my reservations about his new friend. I kept them to myself, although I was sure Pomeroy was aware of my moderate response to his bonhomie.

I was repulsed, too, by his recitation of the reason for his amputee status. He talked about his POW experience, and the results, as if it had happened to someone else. Maybe one would have to, if one hoped to stay sane. I tried to dampen my distrust and dislike but I was uneasy.

When we got back to the station, I left my partner and his new friend in the garage looking at Martin's modified maroon TransAm. "Sweet, fast, quick, state of the art hand controls, a dual-carb four-twenty-eight," followed me up the stairs.

I stopped off in Records. When Minnie noticed the look on my face, she turned to the other officer on duty. "Cover for me a minute, will you, Ray?"

"Sure, Minnie."

I held the door for her and followed her out into the hallway. The break room next door was empty and we took a table in the far corner.

"I need your help, Min," I began, my voice tighter than I had intended.

"Is this about that guy I squired around this morning?" That's one of the things I love about Minnie, she's sharp as a tack and doesn't try to hide it.

"Yes, it is."

"What can I do?"

"I need you to check on the story he told us at lunch," I said.

"POW for six months, legs broken so badly, and so many times, our sawbones here in the U.S. couldn't save them after he got back," she stated, as if reading a file. "Did I get it right?"

"You did," I assured her. "I guess he didn't mind your knowing."

"Not just me, but everyone I introduced him to. I must have heard it more than a dozen times."

"And what do you think?" I respected her judgment and wanted to hear her take on Pomeroy.

"The first few times, I was sick at the thought of what he must have gone through," she said, guardedly. "But, as he kept repeating the story, I realized he always used exactly the same words, said exactly the same way. With absolutely no emotion." She got up, poured two cups of coffee from the sludgy pot and brought them back to the table, putting one in front of me.

I nodded my thanks and took a swallow. It was this morning's coffee and pretty bad. We both grimaced and drank the stuff anyway.

"It sounded so rehearsed and practiced by the time he told it for the tenth or eleventh time..." she was plainly considering her words carefully, "I began to wonder if he'd made the whole thing up and memorized it."

"Can you find out for me?" 

She looked unsure and concerned. "I don't know, Hutch..."

"Please," I begged. "If this guy is some sort of scam artist, I need to warn Starsky. He soaks up every word Pomeroy says and my partner's usually a little more objective then that."

"You think Pomeroy's running a con?" 

"I have no idea," I replied, frustration cracking my voice. "But something about this guy has got my b.s. meter clicking pretty loudly."

She put a hand on my arm. "I have a friend in the Army Records Office in L.A. I'll ask him to find out whatever he can."

"Please be careful. Pomeroy has friends there, too," I warned her. "He told us that's how he got Starsky's service record. Bragged about it really, said he used a case of scotch as the bribe."

"Trust me, Hutch, if my friend is one of the ones who told Pomeroy about Starsky, I'll hear it in his voice, and we'll have to figure out another way to get what you need. If he's not, he'll understand that we're up against someone who's, at the very least, pretty sneaky. A civilian shouldn't be able to get that information."

"Discreetly, please, Min," I reminded her. "Starsky can't find out I went behind his back. He might not remember he did the same thing to me with Jack Mitchell."

"I know, sweetie," she said. "Sometimes Starsky can be his own worst enemy." She smiled, conspiratorially. "So we have to look out for him, keep him from getting hurt."

"That's what I'm hoping for."

"Give me some time, Hutch." 

We emptied our cups into the sink, washed them out and put them on the tray. I walked her back to Records.

At the door, she stopped. "I haven't talked to my friend in a while. I have no idea what his work load is, but I'll ask him to do his best, as quickly as he can."

"That's as much, even more than I can ask." I leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Thanks, Min."

*******

The third time Pomeroy showed up and said he had a great place to take us, I begged off. Thankfully, I'd driven my car that day so I made sure Marty would drop Starsky at his apartment later, and I left. Then, although I wasn't proud of myself, I followed them.

Pomeroy always drove on these forays, he seemed to love showing off his snazzy car. I knew Starsky would certainly relate to that! It was something else he and I didn't share.

I tailed them to a high-priced Mexican place Starsky and I had never been to. It was too rich for our blood.

I parked a block away and watched. A valet hurried to the driver's door and held it open while Starsky wheeled the chair around from the trunk and Pomeroy levered himself into it. My partner slipped the young man a bill and said something to him.

Starsky pushed Martin's chair through the glass front doors, which were being held open by two uniformed doormen.

I left my car where it was and ran over. One of the centurions looked at me a bit suspiciously but opened the door, as he was trained to do.

There were about a dozen people sitting and standing around, clearly waiting for tables. Pomeroy was at the maitre d's podium with Starsky standing behind him, markedly uncomfortable.

I took a position behind a large potted topiary, where I could watch and listen. Pomeroy was talking loudly enough to be heard over the ambient noise of the bustling establishment.

"What do you mean you won't have an opening for over an hour?" he demanded. "You're new here, aren't you? Where's Cesar?"

"He is off tonight, sir," the maitre d' replied, softly. "My name is Jose."

"Of course it is." Pomeroy's tone was snide. "Well, Jose, I happen to know you always keep Mr. Garcia's favorite table free, just in case he decides to come in." He looked pointedly into the full dining room. "However," he went on in a steely voice, "I also happen to know that Mr. Garcia is dining with friends tonight at the Sierra Country Club. He won't be needing his table, so I'll take it."

Without waiting for a reply, Pomeroy turned his chair and began rolling through the dining room. "This way, Dave," he said, over his shoulder. Starsky, seemingly reluctantly, took over pushing.

The maitre d' hurried after them.

I took the only empty stool at the bar and ordered a beer. I had a view of Starsky and Pomeroy, at a window table, on the other side of the restaurant, through the rack of bottles above the bartender's back counter. Starsky appeared, to me, to be withdrawn and quiet, willing to be a sponge for Martin's continuous stream of talk, but not contributing much. After his second beer, my partner loosened up a bit but he didn't look happy with the subject of conversation. He left food on his plate, which told me he wasn't really enjoying himself.

When the check was delivered, Pomeroy's furious voice could be heard throughout the double room.

"I never pay for my meals here, amigo," he shouted, putting an ugly tone of voice into the last word. "Garcia always comps me!" He put a hand on Starsky's arm. "Don't you dare take out your wallet, Dave."

The waiter said something quietly.

"Oh." Pomeroy softened his voice. "My misunderstanding, Raoul." He took his hand off my partner's arm. "I forgot that the drinks aren't comp'ed. You can pay for those, Dave."

I knew that had to be bullshit. If Pomeroy ate here often enough to know the usual maitre d's name, and Garcia's routine, he'd sure as hell remember the drinks weren't free. Even if the food was. Why didn't Starsky call him on it?

My partner almost looked as if he was in a trance. I was beginning to wonder if Pomeroy was some kind of Svengali.

Starsky glanced at the check, took a couple of bills out of his wallet and put them on the waiter's tray.

I didn't move from my place at the bar during the time it took Starsky to push Pomeroy's chair out of the dining room, through the glass doors, to the valet station. He never looked right or left, his shoulders were hunched and his color high, either from the three beers, or embarrassment.

The TransAm appeared almost immediately. Pomeroy propelled himself to the driver's side and got in, leaving Starsky to tip the young man. My partner folded up the wheelchair and loaded it into the trunk before he climbed into the passenger's seat. Pomeroy left rubber on the pavement.

I finished my second brew and caught the bartender's eye, nodding at my empty glass.

"Sorry ‘bout the floor show," he said, when he brought me a fresh bottle and frosted glass.

"That guy come here often?" I asked.

"Too often," the barkeep replied. "He always eats for free and gets his companion, whoever it is, to pay for the drinks." He gulped and began to wipe the bar carefully. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," he apologized, quickly. "The customer's always right."

"Except when he's wrong." I said, solemnly.

*******

Minnie called me one morning just after I got to the squad room, about two weeks after I'd followed Starsky and Pomeroy to Garcia's. My partner and I had had one too many near-arguments over our disparate feelings about Pomeroy and had started driving separately most days.

"Hutch, it's Minnie."

"Hey, Min," I said, softly, although no one else was in the room.

"Is he there yet?"

"No," I replied.

"Can you come down?" she asked.

"Be right there." I grabbed my jacket and hurried down to Records. I took the stairs so that I wouldn't run into Starsky in the elevator.

She met me in the hall and led the way to the break room. Two uniforms were at a table in the front so Minnie went to one at the back. I got two cups of relatively fresh coffee and followed her.

She opened a small notebook, took a sip of coffee and looked at me with as serious a look in her eyes as I'd ever seen. "He's a fraud."

"Pomeroy?" I already knew the answer.

She nodded. "He was never a POW."

I took a swallow of coffee before I put the cup down. I met her gaze, not wanting to, but needing to know. "Tell me."

"He'd only been in Vietnam a month," she began, checking her notes, "when he and another private forged a couple of overnight passes, got drunk in Saigon, stole a jeep, and raced all over the city. Pomeroy was driving, and he eventually plowed it under a two-and-a-half ton truck."

The knuckles of my hands were white, but I waited patiently while Minnie drank more coffee and read through her notes again.

"It took hours to cut him out of the wreckage," she said. "His friend had been killed on impact. Doctors couldn't repair the damage to Pomeroy's legs. When he got back here, they had to be amputated." She drank more coffee. "The army agreed to give him an honorable discharge, in exchange for his promise never to tell anyone what really happened. Their ‘image' in the war was already less than shiny." She read some more. "According to my source, Pomeroy gets minimum disability payments but has full medical coverage. These benefits will continue only as long as he keeps his mouth shut." She put her empty cup down and stared at me. "He made up the POW story."

I sucked in a breath. "I knew something about it wasn't right."

"What are you going to do?" 

I looked in her worried eyes and shook my head. "I have to tell Starsky."

"Will he believe you?"

"I don't know." 

She put a gentle hand on my arm. "I'm so sorry, Hutch."

I patted her hand lightly. "Thanks, Min. For everything." I got up and left her sitting there, unable to help me with what I had to do.

*******

That evening, on the way to our cars, I caught Starsky's elbow and pulled him aside before he could head for the Torino. "Starsk, I need to tell you something."

He stopped. "No, you don't."

"Please listen."

"I mean it, Hutch." He didn't raise his voice but pulled his elbow out of my grasp. "You don't like Marty and you've probably found out something about him that you think I need to know."

There was anger, hurt and confusion his eyes, and it made me want to cry. "Aw, Starsk --"

"But if I don't let you say it," he interrupted, calmly, "I won't have to forgive you later."

"Starsk --"

"No, Hutch," he went on quickly. "We can't resolve our differences of opinion about him so I think we should just agree to disagree."

"He's a liar," I said, gently.

My partner shrugged exaggeratedly. "Aren't we all, at one time or another?"

"Not like this." I knew I needed to stay calm. "He was never a POW. He made that up. His legs were broken in a --"

Starsky shook his head, put his hands up in a warding gesture, and backed away a step. "You probably believe what you just said but I don't think I do. Nobody in his right mind would lie about something like that. It has to be somebody's idea of a sick joke. You weren't there, Hutch," he said, imploringly, "you have no idea what it was like. I guess I really shouldn't be surprised that you can't understand him."

I stepped toward him, reaching for him again. "Starsk..."

He evaded my hand and took a couple of steps toward the Torino, before stopping. Coming to some sort of decision, he turned and came back. He crossed his arms over his chest, physically closing me out. "Okay, here's what I think we need to do," he said, softly. "We never mention his name again. Once he's settled in a good job, one he's happy with, he'll be gone. And we'll be able to put all this behind us."

"Starsky, please..."

He backed off another step. "Marty told me you were possessive, but I laughed it off." He took a deep breath. "Guess I shouldn't have."

My temper flared. "_I'm_ possessive? Shit, Starsky! He's got you wrapped around his little finger."

"No, he doesn't!" Starsky was clearly surprised at my claim.

"Sure he does. Whatever he says, you jump!"

"Well, if that's so..." Starsky's voice had an edge, now, and there was ice in his stare, "he learned it by watching you."

That hurt, and he saw it.

His shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry, Hutch, I didn't really mean that."

"Yeah, I think you did." I waited until I realized he wasn't going to say anything more. "What's goin' on, Starsk?"

He appeared to think about it for a long time. "I don't know."

"We never used to be like this."

"I know."

"It's only been since Pomeroy," I pointed out.

"Don't do that, Hutch," he said, defensively. "He's my friend. You're my friend. What am I supposed to do? Huh?"

"Who's been your friend the longest?"

"That's not fair," he retorted. "You and I have history, but Marty and I share experiences you don't."

"Not if he's lying," I pointed out.

"Shut up!" he flared. "I don't want to believe you."

I backed up against my car, leaning heavily. "Your choice."

He took a couple of steadying breaths before holding his hands out in a supplicating gesture. "My head's a little screwed up right now, Hutch. I'll figure things out. I promise."

"Well..." I was unable to hide my irritation, "when you do, be sure and tell me."

He turned away and walked toward his car. "See you in the morning, partner." He slid in the Torino and drove away.

Cops came out of the building, got in their cars and left, others arrived and went inside. I stood next to my battered brown heap and figured nobody had seen me because I blended right in with the worn, dented, dulled vehicle behind me.

I drove home, confused and confusing thoughts so completely occupying my mind, I don't remember the trip. I'd never known Starsky to be quite so closed to my opinions and ideas. Oh sure, he chided me for my didactic tendencies, pretended to fob me off at times, but he usually listened when I told him something was important. He never categorically refused to accept facts. This time he had cut me off and I felt hollow.

While downing my third beer, I began to get angry. Didn't the ten years Starsky and I had been friends and partners mean anything? Did Starsky think that, because I didn't share his wartime experiences, Pomeroy would be a better friend than I'd been? Had everything he and I had been through together meant so little to him that he'd change his loyalties so easily? I'd never have believed it of the David Starsky I thought I knew, the one I loved pretty damn desperately. But then, the Starsky I'd been partnered with since Pomeroy had appeared on the scene, was becoming a different person.

During my fourth beer, I found myself thinking of ways I could pay him back for his lack of trust and cruel words.

Two days later, I got the chance. We were chasing a couple of perps in a Mustang and I ragged on him about his driving. "Starsky, the red light!" Starsky was a good driver, I knew that, but I hassled him, yelled, distracted him, made him mad.

"That guy's a criminal," he said, concentrating fiercely on his prey. "And I'm a criminal catcher!"

"Starsky, you're crazy," I shouted, trying to be heard over the roaring engine and screaming tires. "Come on, will ya? Slow down!"

Long story short, we wrecked his beloved car.

When I woke up in the hospital and found out he was okay, I realized I could teach him a lesson.

"I thought I was supposed to have a private room, _doctor_," I said, irritably, to the physician at my side, when the nurse wheeled my chair into the room where Starsky was already in bed. I pretended not to know him. I made a point of mispronouncing his name. Twice. It was petty and mean-spirited, but I did it.

For the next two days I kept up the lie: I didn't know who I was, much less who he was. I denied any knowledge of our profession.

"What's wrong with being a cop?" he asked, irritated at my condescension.

"Oh, nothing," I said, sarcastically, "if you're into that kind of macho power trip."

Every story he earnestly told me, trying to jog my memory, only caused me to assume a disgusted expression and make some snide, cutting remark. I put him down, big time, while I put him through hell. I could read the anguish on his face and in his desperate midnight blue eyes but I closed my own and hardened my resolve. I didn't start this, he did. He'd asked for it.

Finally, sick of myself for lying in the first place and deciding he'd suffered enough, I admitted my subterfuge. He was furious, of course, and some of the things he said made me mad as well. We shouted at each other for a while and I was surprised the nurses and doctors didn't come to intervene. The entire floor must have heard us.

Starsky never laughed about it but, when he got over his anger, somehow, he forgave me. Things were better between us for a little while after that but Pomeroy never left us alone for long. And when he was around, Starsky's free time wasn't shared with me.

He and I got increasingly good at playing what I'd come to call ‘our game.' We'd hurt each other in little ways, say nasty, mostly untrue things, and pull rotten practical jokes on each other. I grew a mustache, mostly because I knew he'd hate it.

He did, and got extremely good at jabbing me with one liners about my ‘puny caterpillar,' ‘pathetic cookie duster,' and ‘lip rug.'

I did my best to give as good as I got, but Starsky had sharpened his sarcasm skills considerably. I'd experienced a little of Pomeroy's almost surgical cutting remarks and guessed that my partner was absorbing the talent.

One weekend, Starsky and I played a ridiculous game of hide and seek while we were supposed to be hunting for Ray Pardee.

I made a bet with Starsky that I could disappear, never leaving the city, and he wouldn't be able to find me for two days. Unfortunately, I'd been eating from a can of clam chowder which was part of a batch contaminated with botulism. I never heard the radio announcements but Starsky did. The name of the manufacturer, Ryland, was the same as on the empty can I'd thrown into the back seat of his car.

His search for me became frantic and I laughed up my sleeve, taunting him with pencils from behind my brilliant disguise.

He was so desperate he faked getting shot, hoping I'd come to the hospital to check on him. I did, but overheard Dobey talking to Babcock and Simmons and realized it was a set up. I slipped away.

I found Pardee's girlfriend but was beginning to get sick, from what I didn't know. When she took me to him, I collapsed and he got my gun. He sent the girl off to bring the cache of money and had lots of fun telling me what he was going to do to me. I was so ill by that time, I almost didn't care. This had turned into the silliest prank Starsky and I had ever played on each other. And it was likely to be my last.

My partner tracked the girl, too, got to the warehouse as Pardee was about to make his escape and everything worked out okay; the bad guy went to jail, the money was recovered, and I didn't die.

"No more room temperature canned soup for you, Blintz," Starsky told me in the hospital.

*******

After my little bout of near-fatal gamesmanship, I began to wonder if Pomeroy wasn't having more of an effect on Starsky and me than I'd thought. A week later my serious lapse of professionalism regarding Pardee seemed to have infected my partner.

When Starsky mistakenly shot and blinded Emily Harrison, a supposedly innocent bystander, during the pursuit of a jewelry heist suspect, he internalized everything. "What is blind to you and me, huh?" he asked in the squad room. "It's a five letter word!"

Dobey and I could already tell he was going to take the situation entirely too personally. "Line of duty et lousy cetera," my partner muttered on his way out the door.

He didn't answer his phone, he didn't come to work, he refused to talk to me or anyone else. Starsky had always been a private person when things affected him deeply but he'd never refused to take part in an important, ongoing investigation. Until he caused Emily Harrison's blindness.

I pursued the case alone, unaware that he'd struck up a relationship with her.

When I went to his apartment to talk to him, he was more withdrawn than I think I'd ever seen him.

"Starsky, what's going on?"

"Nothing."

"I've had more intelligent conversations with a turtle," I retorted.

"Then go to a pet store," he responded, "I'm not in the mood for socializing tonight."

"You want to hear about the case?" I asked, getting pissed. When he didn't answer, I shrugged and went on. "Good, glad you're interested, officer."

We sparred about my having questioned her art class teacher. "Why are you investigating Emily?" he asked, tamping down his fury.

I could tell he really was not happy with me but I knew he was being entirely too self-absorbed and wasn't seeing things clearly.

"Instructor said she left class early," I told him.

"So what?" he flared.

"So, nothing, I'm just telling you the facts," I said, helplessly.

"Okay, thanks. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone."

It was obvious that he didn't want me around, he didn't want to talk about anything, he simply wanted to wallow. What could I say to that? "See ya ‘round."

I followed leads without backup, and hassled the suspect's brother in a joint the likes of which I'd never had to go into, alone, before. I harassed Pinky, the sleazy fence I was sure had the gems hidden, waiting for a buyer. Huggy set up the deal and we busted Pinky with the hot ice.

In the end though, Emily's boyfriend, the jewel thief, came entirely too close to taking out my partner and the girl at the same time.

The whole case was a terrible example of what had happened to Starsky's and my partnership, our friendship. From the moment we got the call that Sunday morning, the jibes and slurs, the lack of true communication, wormed their way between us and left us both edgy. Worse, the connection we'd always felt became stretched to the point where I don't think either one of us trusted it any longer. It was almost as if we were deliberately trying to destroy the unique bond we used to depend on.

When Emily Harrison had gotten her sight back and she and her diamond-stealing boyfriend were in our rear view mirrors, I went to Starsky's apartment to find out how he was dealing with the aftermath.

I thought I was being open and friendly and it felt almost as if Starsky wanted to get back on an even keel again, too. We joked about the clay bust Emily had been doing of him.

"You ought to try it sometime," Starsky said, encouragingly.

"What, sculpting?" 

"No, wearing a blindfold. I'll bet you couldn't hack it for five minutes." There was a decided challenge in his tone.

"Five minutes?" I was feeling another irresistible game coming on. "With my grasp of extrasensory perception? Why... I could handle it for days!"

"Five'll get you ten," he snorted, "you couldn't hack it for thirty minutes."

"Thirty min..." I huffed. "Thirty minutes, huh?" My arrogant juices were flowing, this was what Starsky and I were good at these days, getting under each other's skin and staging battles of one-up-manship. "You're on."

He wrapped a towel around my eyes and I stumbled over the vacuum cleaner he'd moved into my path but managed to show off my knowledge of where the sofa was. I kept up a running commentary of my proficiency, adding layers of self-satisfaction as I grabbed the phone off the wall on the first try. I hung it up, went directly to the television, turned it on and off, then blandly said I needed to use the little boy's room. I was thoroughly enjoying my imagined superiority until he moved the peacock chair, suckering me out the front door.

He would have taken me to the ER, if I'd allowed it, but at least he drove me home. And he stayed for a while, getting me ice packs and pain pills. I saw sorrow in his eyes, but not really apology. I couldn't help but wonder how we had allowed this to happen to us.

*******

Starsky and I never talked about Martin Pomeroy after that evening in the police garage. But my partner talked to Minnie, when I wasn't around, and she kept me up to date.

"The Slimy Vet," she said one afternoon, in the break room outside Records, "has parlayed his job here into a much better one in the Mayor's office. He's the liaison to a very large veteran's organization now." She drank her coffee. "Again, he rode in on Starsky's coattails. That's my opinion," she went on quickly, "not anything David said."

"I don't think Starsky would recognize Pomeroy's machinations if they bit him in the ass."

"Don't get down on the boy, Hutch. He's only doing what his caring nature tells him to do, trying to help this guy."

"I know that, Minnie. But if he'd only open his eyes, he'd see he's being used. For what, other than a stepping stone to better jobs for Pomeroy, I don't know. I don't think he's ever asked for money. He just wants to use Starsky's prestige to further himself."

"That's not against the law."

"No," I admitted. "That, in itself, isn't. Lying about your service record probably is but Starsky won't believe me."

"What if I told him?" 

"I appreciate the offer, but he'd know I asked you to check up on Pomeroy. I don't want you on Starsky's shit list, too." I swallowed some coffee and tried to get my thoughts back together. "What else?" 

"Starsky told me that Marty's now investigating moving up to the Mayor's office in L.A. Something about more handicapped access laws."

"Good riddance!"

*******

Pomeroy was away a lot during the following months, but Starsky and I couldn't seem to get our lives back together even when he wasn't there. I had had the temerity to question my partner's choice in, and devotion to a friend and, for that, Starsky couldn't seem to forgive me. Even worse though, he no longer wanted to talk to me about it.

"Starsk," I began one night, as he reached for his jacket, ready to leave.

He looked at me and his expression cut right to my soul, it was sad and hurt, but determined. "Leave it, Hutch, neither of us has it figured out yet."

So I kept my mouth shut and tried to keep our partnership functioning as well as possible. But a few weeks later, I was ready to quit the force. We'd lost Lionel Rigger, a good man, husband and father. A friend of Huggy's.

My car had been bombed and Starsky left our witness unprotected while he ran to help me. Even with all the stress on our relationship, when he saw me on the pavement, he forgot his primary duty. As a result, Huggy's friend was murdered.

And it was all my fault. I'd been so confident we had Rigger safely hidden, I hadn't paid enough attention when I went out to get food. My cop instincts should have questioned the pristine white pants and silver jacket on the guy lying under the truck parked next to my car. But I was oblivious.

We learned later, that he had planted a remotely controlled explosive device while I was in the store. When I came out, I looked at him, I even spoke to him, politely telling him to move his legs, before I drove away. Because of me and my stupid arrogant negligence, Lionel died.

I didn't think I had much to offer the department any longer. Maybe not even the world. My partner, my best friend, the man I loved more deeply than anyone else on the planet, didn't seem to want to be around me any more. Pomeroy might have been the instigator but I'd done my share to drive Starsky away and I had a pretty good case of self-hatred going.

I went to the beach.

Just before I consigned my badge to the surf, Starsky hollered. I stopped in mid-windup, turned and looked at him. My heart melted. His expression was as lost and unhappy as mine probably was.

"That's pollution," he said quietly, trying, I assumed, for levity.

I appreciated the attempt but my desolation couldn't be jollied. "This old badge has polluted me just about enough," I said, turning the piece of metal over in my hands.

"Really." Starsky stared down at his own badge before looking back at me. "Mind if I join you?"

We threw our shields simultaneously.

The Powers That Be weren't ready to let us go, however. We were targets without a badge for a few hectic, dangerous weeks. The final body count was a corrupt federal judge, the father of a friend from Starsky's childhood, Soldier, the assassin who'd taken out Lionel, and a couple of his henchmen.

Clayburn, the crooked Assistant D.A., ended up behind bars, and the mayor got Starsky's and my names, and badges backward, when he reinstated us. We got a chuckle out of that.

Laura, Allison as she was now known, Starsky's friend, coddled us both for a while before relegating us to her outer circle of friends. She no longer needed our protection and had a life of her own to pursue.

I'm not sure I was glad to be back on the job, Starsky either for that matter, but there we were. BCPD's finest, protecting and serving again.

Pomeroy was gone a lot and Starsky and I came to a working, albeit strained, relationship. I had missed his company, his companionship, his friendship so badly, I was willing to take anything I could get. I accepted his quiet, calm, controlled, undemonstrative presence back into my life.

We hadn't gotten past the verbal barbs though. The quips and snipes were muted a little, but enough to keep the wounds from healing. And the competitive streak was still alive and well in both of us.

PART THREE - STARSKY

March, 1979

The months of strain on my relationship and partnership with Hutch had taken their toll. When Marty was away on one of his ‘contact expanding' trips, Hutch and I tried to patch things up but we almost always ended up arguing.

We still worked together almost as well as we ever had, we closed cases and put bad guys in jail. We just didn't seem to enjoy it as much as we had. I knew it was my fault for not choosing Hutch over Marty but I was getting so much better at accepting my army experiences, that I couldn't give up my newfound understanding. And the man who was responsible for it. Not yet, anyway. All I could do was hope that, once Pomeroy was gone, and he was talking more and more about moving up to L.A., that Hutch and I would be able to repair whatever damage I'd done to our friendship.

*******

Losing Lionel Rigger the way we did hurt both of us. Hutch blamed himself for not being observant enough; I blamed myself for reacting like a friend instead of a cop. When I saw the car blow up and Hutch thrown a dozen feet by the explosion, I lost my objectivity. That was Hutch on the street, maybe dead, maybe just hurt.

I told Lionel to stay in the room, and I ran. Of course, that's what Soldier wanted me to do. I had Hutch in my arms when we both heard the shot and saw Rigger's body crash through the window and fall to the sidewalk. My partner and I had been manipulated like rookies.

It took Huggy a long time to forgive us and even longer, I think, for us to forgive ourselves.

*******

After we got our badges back and Marty had returned from one of his trips to L.A., he picked me up for drinks and dinner. It was another new place I'd never been to but I wasn't able to concentrate on the surroundings. I was really bummed, not knowing how to make things right with Hutch.

"He's jealous," Martin said, over our third margaritas.

"You said that before," I responded, automatically.

"I know I did, and it's still true," Pomeroy vowed. "He doesn't share our war stories, Dave. He has no idea what it feels like to be hunkered down in a shell hole that's half full of water from the rain that never seems to stop. To be so scared during a fire fight you're afraid you'll either shit yourself, or run away. I learned about that on my very first patrol."

He read something in my eyes and it shut him up. Maybe he knew I'd never had the urge to run, or to soil myself. But I'd talked to enough other guys who had, that I didn't judge him. I got the impression he thought I had, though, and I mentally shook my head. After all the months I'd known him and all the conversations we'd had, I realized I still couldn't ‘read' him. He was an even more closed off, conflicted person than Hutch. And the closer he came to nailing down his dream job and not needing my help any longer, the more unfriendly signs I seemed to be getting from him. The more he was willing to let me see a side of him he'd kept well hidden, the nasty side. Had I been picking that up from him and using it against Hutch all along without knowing it?

"I heard about the amnesia stunt last year," he said into a continuing silence.

I couldn't hide my surprise. "Where'd you hear that?"

"Oh," he waved a hand dismissively, "somewhere." He picked his drink up and stared at me over the rim. "It proves my point though, he's jealous and possessive, he wants you all to himself. When he can't have you, he gets mean."

"That was a one time thing, Marty," I said. "It hasn't happened since."

"Yet," he replied, knowingly.

"You're wrong about him." I signaled for another round. "I know you are. He's just feeling insecure because you and I have gotten so close. When it's the two of us again, he'll be fine. You'll see."

"No, I won't, Dave. I'll be gone, remember?" he pointed out. "It'll be just you and him."

"Like it used to be." I took a swallow of the fresh drink. "We'll be okay."

"Really?" he asked, perceptively. "Do you honestly think you'll be able to forgive all the things he's done this past year? And said?"

"‘Course I will," I stated, with as much conviction as I could muster. "Besides," I said, truthfully, "I've done my share. And I know he'll forgive me. He's Hutch! My best friend, my partner. I love him!"

"He's going to hurt you, buddy boy," Marty responded. "I can feel it in my bones. You should think about transferring to another precinct."

"No!" I stated, unequivocally. "I'll never leave Hutch. We're just goin' through a rough patch."

He grimaced. "You can pass it off if you want, Dave, but mark my words, he'll do something truly nasty one of these days and you'll remember what I said."

He put his drink down and looked at me with a superior smile. "And when he does, I may be in a position to return all the favors you've done me." He drank half his margarita. "I'm making quite a lot of contacts, buddy boy. I'll be someone who can help you."

"I'll keep that in mind, Marty." I suddenly wished he'd stop calling me ‘buddy boy.'

We ate the rest of our dinner more or less in silence and I drank more than I should have. I could tell he was uncomfortable about something, probably having told me more than he wanted to about his panic under fire. But I figured anything I might say would only worsen the situation.

In the car, leaving the restaurant, he grinned suddenly and slapped me on the thigh. "You've never been up to the house, Dave. Got time tonight?"

"Sure." I had nothing else to do.

"Good!" He turned toward the hills. "I don't like to leave things unsettled. I hate flashbacks like that."

"Forget it, Marty." I tried to do just that myself.

"No, I'm serious. I know you're finally getting more comfortable being able to talk about it and then I go and ruin things with some dumb-ass comment about my own hang ups."

"Never mind," I said. "It's really not a problem."

I don't think he believed me but he didn't say anything more.

When he pulled into the driveway of a residence above the city, I couldn't help exclaiming, "Man, what a place!"

I got his chair out of the trunk and took it around to his side of the car.

"One of these days," he said, proudly, "I'll show you how I get this thing in and out of the back seat by myself. I don't always have someone around to put it in the trunk." He wheeled himself inside.

The view through the living room windows, to the lightscape below, was amazing.

"Do you own this?" I asked, stunned.

"Hell no!" he replied. "I'd never own something this old. It was built in the 20's and requires maintenance all the time. Something always needs fixing or replacement. I rent. So the agency's responsible for everything. All I have to do it enjoy the view!" He gestured expansively out the windows.

"What does a place like this cost? If you don't mind my asking."

"I don't mind at all," he said nonchalantly. "Fifteen hundred a month."

I whistled and shook my head. "I didn't realize you were rich. That first day in the squad room, you implied you were tapped out." 

"That's right, I did," he said, casually, "I lie sometimes." He propelled himself to the bar and took two beers out of the small fridge. He handed one to me and went over to the windows. "I'm certainly not rich, though."

I uncapped my brew and followed him. I'd already had enough to drink over dinner that I was having trouble keeping the Marty I thought I knew, and liked, aligned with the one who just admitted he hadn't told the truth concerning his financial status. What else was a lie? I didn't want to think about what Hutch had told me, that his POW story wasn't true. That couldn't be possible. Nobody would make up something like that, would they? My fuzzy brain didn't want to think about those kinds of knotty topics, it simply wanted to absorb the scenery.

Planes, lined up to land at the airport, were like slowly moving strings of luminous pearls. The thin layer of smog over the blanket of city lights gave everything an iridescence.

"I milk the system, buddy boy." There was satisfaction in Marty's voice. "My minimum disability plus full social security comes to over two thousand a month." He grinned at me. "All of it tax free."

I was really confused now. "I thought someone was only eligible for one of those benefits at a time."

He chuckled and drank half his beer. "You just don't know how to work it, pal. Neither of them knows I'm drawing both, and they never check with each other. So I take it all."

"Doesn't any of it bother you?"

"Why should it?" His tone was contemptuous now. "After what I've been through, I'm entitled to everything I can get." He downed the rest of his beer. "I'm comp'ed at bars and restaurants all the time, as you know, and I take that, too. I hardly ever have to pay for anything."

I knew my discomfort must have been showing. He glanced at me derisively. "Don't tell me you're going to go all righteous on me now, Dave. You'd do the same thing, if you were in this chair."

"Maybe." I hoped he was wrong. I looked around at the rest of the living room. Shelves were full of hard bound books, statues, pottery, carvings, glass pieces, all kinds of things. "Where'd you get all this... stuff?" 

"Gifts, mostly." He rolled to the bar and came back with two more beers. "Professors, people who've helped me..." he smiled slyly, "...lovers." He sipped his fresh beer. "You might be surprised at how generous some people are when they feel guilty that I'm in this chair and they're not. I have no trouble using that, Dave."

"You seem to have perfected the art." I was uncomfortable now.

"You sound judgmental."

I shook my head and the room spun. "No, I..." oh, shit, I'd had too much to drink. "I, uh..."

"Go on, say it," Marty demanded, draining his second beer. "You think I abuse my entitlement."

"I didn't say that, I... uh... I'm not sure... I never really thought about it." I stumbled over my words and thoughts.

"Never mind, Dave," Marty relented. "I'm only teasing anyway." He made another trip to the fridge. "It amuses me to put people on the spot and see if they have the spine to stand up to me." His smile was smug. "You almost did." He handed me one of the bottles. "Here, have another beer."

"I haven't finished this one," I said, holding it up.

"Well, drink up, buddy boy!" he encouraged. "The night is young!"

We both drank so much, neither of us willing to dig any deeper into the can of worms he'd opened, that he wasn't in any condition to drive me to my car. I stayed the night.

But I couldn't get to sleep. My muzzy brain was trying come to terms with Marty's revelations about his incapacitating fear during the war, then his lies about money. I began to wonder if the Martin Pomeroy I thought I knew was real, or simply the façade he wanted me, and everyone else, to see.

It was after two o‘clock when he rolled into the room.

I hadn't been expecting it, but I don't think I was really surprised either. I knew his lovers weren't all female. That was okay, I like to think I'm more open-minded now, since discovering John Blaine's secret. I'd never swung that way, not even in the service. But I did admit to myself, once in a while, that I spent a lot of time at Vinnie's Gym, caressing my partner's nearly perfect body with my eyes. The scars he carried on his left leg, and the ones in his shoulder and on his arm were decorations, in my mind. Hutch was a gorgeous specimen of manhood. Did that mean I was gay? No, I didn't think so. I never looked at any other man that way. And I enjoyed women! It was only that Hutch was... well, he was downright beautiful! And, God knows, he was my best friend. I loved him.

"It's late, Marty," I said, drowsily. "Go to bed."

"I've thought of a way to make up for my behavior tonight, Dave."

I really wasn't in any condition, or mood, for more dramatics. And I didn't want to talk about it. When he put his hand on my thigh, I slid out from under it. "No," was all I said.

He chuckled softly but didn't say anything.

After he left, I laid awake the rest of the night, sobering up. Why had I allowed this person to worm his way into my life like this? And, if I decided I didn't like where it was going, how could I extricate myself without hurting Marty? I still had a lot of respect for the fact that he hadn't allowed what had happened to overwhelm him. He'd gone on and made something of himself. It wasn't the way I hoped I'd have done it but who was I to judge?

Marty drove me to the precinct the next morning, saying nothing about his advance of the night before. I hoped he'd been too drunk to remember.

"I'll be out of town for the next week or so, Dave," Marty said, when he dropped me off. "You and Hutch enjoy yourselves."

*******

Kira hit me like the proverbial Mack truck. Hutch and I were assigned to an undercover operation with her and, almost before I knew it, I told my partner I loved her.

"You what?" he choked?

"I love her."

He appeared to think about it. "She loves you, huh?"

"Yeah."

"She told you that?" he persisted.

"Well," I admitted, "not in so many words..." I stumbled on my explanation and tapered off.

Hutch left, "to take care of some things," he said. However, I soon discovered that my partner, my bosom buddy, my best friend in the whole world, had done exactly what Martin had predicted: he'd betrayed me.

I took a small gift over to Kira's house on my way to work and Hutch was just coming out of her bedroom, tucking his shirt into his jeans. Neither of them tried to deny anything during the excruciating silence that followed, and the embarrassed, confused, angry looks that flew back and forth.

I reached for the door knob. "You wanted to get... straighten things out, huh?" My voice was unrecognizable, even to myself.

"Starsky, I meant it," Hutch said, hurt, anger and humiliation all wadded up in his tone. He looked like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Except that it wasn't his _hand_.

"Sure ya did." Sarcasm and irony, those would be my weapons until I had time to figure out what the hell was going on.

Hutch came over to me, apology in his body language but not yet in his eyes. "Starsky... Hey." He reached for my arm.

I shook it off. "What?"

"Come on," he said, quietly. He looked at her. "I just came by to see how Kira feels about things, that's all."

"How does she feel, huh?" I growled. "Huh?" The tight rein I had on my fury broke, and I lunged at him, punching him in the stomach.

He grabbed my arms and pushed me against the wall. We grappled, each trying to get in a telling blow.

"Stop it!" Kira yelled.

Hutch and I broke apart and looked at her.

Her wild eyes were tear-filled. "You just can't fight over me... without asking me how I think!"

She threw us both out.

Her words bothered me although I wasn't exactly sure why, "... how I think." Not "... how I feel."

I guess I was still in shock that night at the dance hall, during the confrontation with Joey, because, later, I had a difficult time remembering the grenade arching into my hand, my hurling it through the window, and the subsequent explosion.

I was stunned, confused, more angry at Hutch than I'd ever been, and I was convinced we could never be partners, much less friends, again.

The next day though, after Kira made a date with each of us, he and I talked on the phone. We agreed to meet her for one final conversation, appeal, proposition, ultimatum, whatever she wanted to think it was. We walked away from her, our arms around each other's shoulders, giving the appearance that our anger and divisiveness was water under the bridge.

I don't know if I forgave him or not. I left him standing outside the bar and drove around for a long time that night. For days afterward I was in limbo. I'm sure Hutch and I worked cases together, I think we even closed an easy one. But I have no memory of anything during that time. I spent all my off-duty hours alone, with my thoughts. When had Hutch and I started looking for ways to cause each other emotional pain? Had it really begun only after Marty showed up? Was that when things had turned ugly? Or was it earlier and I hadn't noticed?

Was Hutch right about him? And about everything else? I couldn't accept that and I wasn't getting any closer to deciding what to do about it by myself. One night, after work, knowing I could use some help, I headed for Marty's place to talk things over with him.

That's where I got the second heart-stopping shock that week. Kira answered the door. She smiled radiantly and ushered me inside.

The living room had the appearance of someone moving in, or out. Everything that wasn't a piece of furniture was a packing box. All Marty's ‘stuff' was missing off shelves and table tops, and was undoubtedly in the numerous cardboard cartons stacked around the room.

Marty was pouring two glasses of wine. He handed one to Kira, taking the second one for himself.

"Would you like a glass, Dave?"

"Uh, no thanks," I said, dumbly. "I didn't realize you two knew each other."

"Oh, yes, Dave," Marty said, cheerily. "I met Kira through one of the cop contacts you gave me." He clinked his glass lightly against hers and took a long, appreciative swallow. "I knew I was going to be away for a while and didn't want you and Hutchinson to have a chance at rapprochement during my absence. She told me the three of you had been given an undercover assignment so I asked her..." He put his hand behind her neck, drew her to him and kissed her.

When he broke the kiss, he leered at me. "... to see if she couldn't hurt you both, just a little bit." He sipped his wine. "I left the method completely up to her. It seems sleeping with each of you did the trick."

He caressed her cheek. "She's one of my favorite ladies." He looked at me lecherously and licked his pouty lips. "I know you remember how sweet her mouth is."

I stared at him. "Why, Marty? Why would you do something like that?"

"Because I could," he said, easily. "Because you were so bloody goddamned helpful, I couldn't resist." He took another swallow, savoring. "I didn't think it would go this far, not in the beginning. I really did need your help and thought it might prove amusing to mess with your heads along the way. But you bent over backward and did more than I could have asked. You even gave up your bosom pal for me, and my needs."

He glared at me, what looked like hatred leaking through the layers of friendliness. "I've always detested compassion, buddy boy, and you positively reek of it." He shrugged exaggeratedly and drank more wine. "Also, I did it because your sanctimonious partner needed to be taken down a few pegs."

"Neither of us had ever done anything to you," I told him, truthfully.

"So what?" He drank again. "I read about you, I learned about you, I knew exactly how you'd react and I used you. It was fun!" He gestured angrily at his chair. "And I have so little fun in my life!" He raised the glass in a gesture of finality, and turned blasé again. "What's the big deal anyway? You'll get over it."

There was absolutely nothing I could say to that.

"I'm really glad you dropped by, Dave," Marty continued, "I'm leaving and, although I don't do it often, I figured I should thank you for your help."

"You're welcome." I sat on the end of the sofa, my knees suddenly unsteady. "What exactly did I help with this time?"

"You got me my new job! Indirectly," he replied.

"Terrific." I didn't understanding, though. "What new job? I thought you were set as the Mayor's liaison to that disabled veterans organization."

"Oh, that's old hat, amigo. I parlayed that contact into a better one in the L.A. Mayor's office. I told you, but you must have forgotten in all the..." he cast an approving look at Kira, "... recent brouhaha." He swallowed more wine. "That's why I've been away lately." He drained his glass, reached for the bottle and held it up to me. "Sure you won't have some, Dave?"

I shook my head.

He poured himself a full glass and raised it toward me in a parody of a salute. "From the mayor's office in L.A., I worked my way over to the Los Angeles Film Commission. That's where I've been for the last couple of weeks." He drank his wine, a self-satisfied smile on his face. "I'll be heading up their new office which will get disabled people into The Biz. Politics was a great idea, Dave, but Hollywood pays a whole lot better! I gotta look out for numero uno, right, buddy boy?"

"Sure," I said, mechanically.

"I couldn't have done it without you, pal." He saluted me with his glass. "You got me started, introduced me to the people I needed."

"That's what it was all about, isn't it?" I asked. The realization that I'd been used was getting through to me at long last.

"Of course it is, Dave." His voice held not a trace of remorse. "I needed help and, from everything I'd read, you were just the guy who'd give it to me. You're such a softy, I knew you couldn't resist a crippled vet." He took another sip of wine. "As a bonus, I got to hone my considerable talents. You must admit," he said, cheerfully, "I'm very good at persuasion." His smile turned mean. "And divisiveness. You and your arrogant partner never knew what hit you."

Kira gave me the look that used to melt my heart and sat next to me. "You're truly a sweet, caring person, Dave. Marty knew you wouldn't let an army buddy down. Especially," she sipped her wine delicately, "one who'd been hurt so badly as a POW." She put her hand on my arm and leaned toward me, clearly expecting me to kiss her.

I shook her hand off and stood up. "Well..." I managed to get the word past the tightness in my throat, "I'll say congratulations. Can't tell you how much I've enjoyed being shoved around like a chess piece."

"Don't take it so hard, Dave," Marty said, condescendingly. "All's fair in love and getting ahead."

"I guess it is from where you're sitting, Marty." I started toward the door but stopped and turned back. "I'm curious. Hutch told me your POW story was a lie."

"How the fuck did he find out?" Marty's face flushed red, etched with fury. "Those files are sealed!"

"Yeah, they probably are." I leaked some satisfaction into my voice. "But, you see, Hutch didn't trust you. I guess he found someone to unseal them."

Marty took several swallows of wine, obviously thinking furiously. He picked up the bottle and drained it into his glass before he cast a hate-filled, sly look at me. "Hutchinson won't say anything. He knows how much it would hurt you if the truth came out. Big shot detective couldn't see through my line of bullshit. Didn't even check out my story, just swallowed it whole." He sneered. "I'll bet every defense attorney in the state would love to know that! Shoot your credibility on the witness stand all to hell in the future, wouldn't it?" He grinned, evilly. "And don't think it would hurt me. Hollywood dotes on great bullshitters, they practically deify us!"

"That's not why Hutch won't say anything." I felt as if I didn't have an emotion left in my body. I had nothing except the truth. "It'd be beneath him, Marty, and Hutch would never stoop to your level."

Pomeroy laughed, nastily. "Is that the best you can do, Dave?" He drank more wine. "Insults aren't your strong suit, are they?"

I shrugged off his comment and turned to the woman I'd thought I loved. I studied her eyes, and the unrepentant expression on her face. "Without asking you how you think," I paraphrased her own words, softly.

"What?" She was suddenly unsure of herself.

I shook my head. "Nothing. You going up to L.A. with him?"

"I'm considering it."

"Good," I said. "You should go. You deserve each other."

I left them there, open-mouthed, and headed home.

Except the Torino ended up at Venice Place. And I sat outside, replaying everything over and over in my mind, wondering why I'd come. What would I say to him? What could I say?

The passenger door was opened and Hutch slid onto the seat. "You've been out here for over two hours, Starsk," he said quietly. "Aren't you ever going to come upstairs?"

"Was afraid," I admitted.

"What are you talking about?"

"You were right about everything, Hutch," I told him, trying to keep myself from falling apart. Hutch didn't need that extra baggage. This whole mess had been my doing. I had refused to listen when he tried to tell me the truth, so I was responsible for what had happened between us.

"What do you mean, ‘everything'?" 

"Pomeroy was using me. Right from the beginning."

He put his hand on my arm. "I'm so sorry."

I waved off his sympathy. I didn't want him taking that weight on himself, too. "Don't, Hutch, I didn't mean..."

He tightened his grip a little, interrupting my refusal. "Come upstairs and tell me, okay? I have a feeling we're going to be apologizing to each other for a long time, and I'd rather not do it out here." He waited until I was able to meet his gaze. "Please?"

"Okay."

I followed him upstairs. He went to the kitchen and got two beers out of the fridge while I sank, tired to the bone, onto the couch.

Hutch uncapped the bottles and handed me one, sitting next to me. We weren't touching but his emotional support was like a balm to my soul and I suddenly had the courage to tell him.

"Pomeroy was up in L.A. for two weeks, and didn't want us getting back together while he was gone." I sipped my beer. I couldn't look at him. "Kira was his gift to us."

Hutch was silent for a long time. I almost smiled because it wasn't often I rendered my articulate partner speechless.

"Are you serious?" he asked, after I'd begun to think he wasn't listening.

"She was there tonight, at his house," I said. "No remorse, no apology, her usual smiling, beautiful self." I drank more beer, noticing that Hutch hadn't touched his yet. "I got the feeling that, if I'd been willing, Marty would have enjoyed watching me fuck her."

"Oh, Jesus." Hutch finally took a swallow. "How does he even know her?"

"They met through one of the cops I'd introduced him to. Marty was always following up contacts. I knew that. I just never considered that one of them had led to her." I swallowed another gulp. "But, even if I'd known, I couldn't have imagined that he'd tell her to... hurt us both, just a little bit."

"Lovely turn of phrase."

"You didn't trust him from that first day." 

"No."

"And I couldn't see it. You tried to tell me and I refused to listen." I took a hefty drink. "Deaf, dumb and blind," I said, hating myself. "But I can't play a decent game of pinball."

Hutch didn't smile at my joke, he just put his hand on my knee. "I'm sorry it's hurt you so badly, Starsk, but I think I'm glad you couldn't see it."

"What?"

"Your heart is so open and loving, it's difficult for you to tell, in your personal life, when people are lying to you, and using you."

"That's almost what Kira said, but she was being sarcastic. I think."

"Probably." He increased the pressure on my leg. "As a cop, you almost always know when someone's not telling the truth. But that talent can be sidetracked when your heart's involved."

"Well," I said, resigned, "my heart's officially retired."

"No, Starsk..." Hutch gripped my knee more firmly. "That's exactly what you have to avoid. You can't let this turn you into somebody who stops caring."

"‘s what I feel like doing."

"I know, but you have to fight it. People like Pomeroy and Kira will always be out there. It's why you and I have to try and forget about this past year and get back to where we used to be."

"Me and thee?"

"Yes."

"Think we can?"

"I hope so, Starsk. I want to try."

"Me, too."

He put his arm around my shoulders and I leaned against him. Before I knew what was happening, I was crying. I never cry! Not since Terry died, and not really even then. I never completely broke down. This was the proverbial dam bursting, letting out all my frustration, anger and fear about why Hutch and I had drifted apart.

No! I sat up, tears streaming down my face. "Hutch," I said, nearly choking on the full impact of a thought. "You and me, pulling away from each other... that wasn't an accident."

"No, babe," he agreed. "After what you've just told me, I don't think it was."

"We were manipulated."

"You, much more than me, Starsk."

"Both of us, Hutch! Marty researched each of us. He knew exactly how you'd react. He used you, too."

"It was ingenious, really," Hutch said, softly. "He took all our off-duty time with each other away from us. Time we needed to relax, decompress, talk things over, joke around, work things out, stay close. He put himself between us from that very first day."

"Without those times to ourselves," I responded, knowing he was right, "we started misreading each other. I thought our connection had, somehow, short circuited. I was too stupid to realize I was the one who'd done it to us. I played right into his hands."

"You're not to blame, Starsky. This was all Martin Pomeroy's doing."

"He couldn't have done it if I hadn't let him," I pointed out, sadly.

"You said it yourself. He researched you and knew exactly what buttons to push, what cards to play, to get you on his side. He opened with the crippled vet card and went on from there."

"And I didn't believe you when you tried to tell me!" I was nearly choking.

"Don't do that to yourself." Hutch pulled me back against him. "I'll bet he's had a lot of practice at screwing with people's minds."

"And hearts."

"And hearts," he repeated. "Did he say why he did it?"

"Because he could. He said he's always hated softies like me, and that you needed to be taken down a couple of pegs."

"That's cold."

"It was more than just cold, Hutch." Tears were pushing past my anger. "It was cruel and calculated. And we both fell into it. He hurt you, too!"

"Past tense." He gently thumbed the tears from my cheeks. "It's over."

Impulsively, I caught his hands and kissed them. "I nearly lost you!"

Hutch pulled me against his chest and stroked my back. "Never happen."

Tears kept leaking so Hutch held me tighter. And like an epiphany in super slow motion, a truth that had been lurking just out of my field of realization, came to me.

"God, Hutch..." I scrubbed the tears from my face but didn't pull away from his encompassing arms. "I'm probably going to make an even bigger fool of myself now but I have to say this." I sat up, looked into the soul-deep china blue eyes I never tired of seeing, and sucked up my courage. "I thought I was in love with Kira, but I'm beginning to think I was in love with the _idea_ of Kira: a beautiful blonde who was my equal in police work, in street smarts and loyalty, dedication and honor. And shared my passion in bed." I lifted my hand and caressed his cheek. "Turns out I'm definitely in love with that image, but it's not her, was never her. It's you. You're everything I just said. And always have been."

Heat rushed up my neck and I knew my face was getting beet red. I didn't look away from his astonished gaze, though, I needed him to see deep inside me, with no subterfuge on my part. "Can't speak to the ‘in bed' statement yet..." I tried a smile but I think I failed. "If I ever do discover that part, it'll be on your say so alone. But I know now that you're everything else I've ever needed. Ever wanted."

Unable to help myself, I kissed him. I'd never thought about doing it before, even when he'd claimed that I wasn't a good kisser. We'd joked around but I hadn't thought about doing it. And I didn't think about it now, I just did it. His lips were soft and sensual, as I knew they'd have to be. The mustache felt prickly, like a medium-stiff bristle brush. Have to talk him into shaving it off one of these days. When I drew back, his eyes were wide with surprise and what appeared to be happiness.

"You've been here all the time," I said, wonderingly. "Right next to me. In my heart, in my soul. I'm in love with you, Hutch."

Hutch drew me to his chest again and kissed my hair. His tears dripped onto the side of my face, like a christening.

"Starsk," he murmured, "if what we both went through this past fifteen months was necessary in order to bring us to this moment..." He put his fingers under my chin and lifted my face. "... I'd go through it a hundred times. No, a million! You're worth that, and so much more, to me. You're my life, David Starsky. You always have been, and always will be."

He kissed me and I knew heaven couldn't possibly be a better place than here in his arms. "I love you, Hutch," I said, when I could breathe again.

"And I love you, Starsk."

*******

The next day they painted the squad room.

*******

An infection that  
rots and destroys from within  
called entitlement

END

**Author's Note:**

> The RPF follow-up to this story, titled "At Our age," is the next one down on this site.


End file.
